Ch. 4 | Dead in the Water

Jasmine braced herself against the passenger door as Greg tore down the 93 toward Lake Mead like a bat out of hell. The rising altitude, sharp curves, and his reckless speed stirred a quiet panic in her chest. Just a few more minutes, she thought, muttering a silent Hail Mary. She hadn’t talked to God in a while, but if she was about to die in Greg’s car, it wouldn’t hurt to get right with her Maker.

Soon after, they arrived at the scene. She exhaled and mouthed a silent thank you. It was a Saturday afternoon at the lake. What used to be a popular destination had grown quieter in recent years — water levels dropping, heat rising. Today, though, was uncharacteristically beautiful for July.

She spotted the coroner, Stuart, and gave a quick wave as they approached.

“Afternoon, Detective,” Stuart said in his usual monotone.

Not a man of many words, Stuart’s less-than-stellar social graces were forgiven thanks to his meticulous work. His findings had helped them more times than most realized. Jasmine made a point to drop off Sudoku books when she visited his office. The gesture had made her a favorite.

“A boy and his father found the car while fishing,” Stuart explained. “The local LEOs already pulled it out. Four people inside — man, woman, two girls. All with gunshot wounds to the head. That’s all we’ve got for now. I’ll know more once they’re on the slab.”

“Thanks, Stuart,” Jasmine said as he turned back to the body bags.

She glanced over just as the ME assistant zipped the last one closed — one of the girls. A wave of sadness hit her. Two children, gone. Just like that.

“Well, this wasn’t on my bingo card,” Greg said, breaking the silence. “We’ll need to talk to the father and son, get the particulars on the victims. I’ll see if anyone found ID.”

He flagged down a first responder and started asking questions. It wasn’t every day a murdered family washed up in Vegas — especially shot execution-style. Jasmine stood still for a beat. What the hell is going on?

Greg’s voice pulled her back.

“Get this,” he said, holding out a brown leather wallet. “The male victim’s name is Peter Jilinski. Forty-five. Take a look at the address — look familiar?”

She took the ID, studying the face and address.

“Not jumping out at me,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, this will,” Greg added, pulling out another card.

She knew it instantly. The Lago Tierra HOA membership card.

That’s when it clicked.

“They lived in the same neighborhood as that missing family case we caught a few weeks ago.”

“Yep,” Greg nodded. “I doubt there’s a connection, but what the hell is going on with the Richie Riches? I do know they’ll be breathing down our necks on this one. Nothing like dealing with the entitled elite.”

“I don’t know,” Jasmine murmured, eyes narrowing.

She furrowed her brow. Not one for coincidences, she didn’t want to make premature connections — but she also didn’t believe in accidents. Vesna, the Lago Tierra HOA president, had been a thorn in their side during the last case — obstructive, defensive, and utterly unhelpful.

A quadruple homicide wouldn’t make her any easier to deal with.

One thing was certain: they’d be heading back to that dreadful neighborhood.

And no one worth their badge enjoyed dealing with an HOA.